


A Perfectly Cosy Halloween, Home with John

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Costumes, Fluff and Smut, If They Actually Get Their Shit Together, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, Oncoming Mystrade, Sherlock blabs, halloween party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2021-01-05 14:51:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21210362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: Sherlock has Halloween planned.  Couch.  Scary movies.  John.Not parties, costumes and bloody Mycroft.





	1. A Particularly Ordinary Monday, Sometime at the Beginning of September...

~~~~~~~~~~

John stepped from the kitchen into the living room.

“No” Sherlock said without even looking at him. He was far too busy laying on the couch to acknowledge the man any further.

“I haven’t asked anything” was John’s reply, sounding a bit amused and a bit annoyed. It would be nice, Sherlock thought to himself, if the man would exhibit just one emotion at a time, but then again, that wouldn’t be John. 

“I know, but you were going to ask if I was planning to go to my brothers halloween ball and the answer, which should be obvious, is no.” Sherlock still didn’t move from his supine position on the couch. He did open his eyes though.

“Oh, okay.” John turned and went back to the kitchen to resume his tea making. 

Sherlock frowned. That wasn’t right. There should be more to it than _ ‘Oh, okay _.’

Sherlock got up and walked to the door of the kitchen. John always asked how he knew. Normally, Sherlock found people’s complete lack of awareness of their surroundings and what was so obviously, well, obvious, irritating. But not with John. With John it was endearing. That could possibly have something to do with the fact that John said he was _ brilliant _ or _ amazing _ after every deduction. That, and the fact that Sherlock had a raging crush on his flatmate, but that was better left to be examined at a never point in time. 

Sherlock watched John make the tea for a few seconds, his concentration fully on the task at hand (was a rubbish day at work) before he spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask how I knew?”

John momentarily stopped making the tea and looked over to Sherlock, a slight crease of confusion between his eyes. Or it could have been annoyance, Sherlock was never sure with this one. “Huh?” he asked.

“How I knew that that was what you were going to ask?” Sherlock clarified. John shrugged and continued his tea making.

“Oh, um, not really. I figured that you had probably guessed I had been in the kitchen long enough to have noticed the invitation on the table, acid burns and all, and since you know I don’t mind social events and don’t mind halloween, you probably figured that I would ask.”

Sherlock was a bit put out. He liked explaining these things. When other people got it, it wasn’t clever, it was just normal.

“What I really want to know though,” John asked, getting Sherlock excited again “Is why your brother is hosting a Halloween ball of all things. Doesn’t strike me as the type to be into foreign holidays and all that. Especially the fun ones,”

Sherlocks excitement dropped. 

“American ambassador is visiting” he answered with as little enthusiasm as possible and turned and made his way back into the living room.

Sherlock was in fact, looking forward to Halloween home, with john, watching old scary movies on the couch. It would be chilly and John hadn’t had much work lately so, not wanting to up the electricity bill and use the heater but not thinking it cold enough to go through the effort of lighting the fire, he would bring his thick, soft blanket down and they would both <strike> snuggle </strike> huddle under that for warmth. If Sherlock played his cards right, he would be able to wriggle his feet under John’s thighs. Maybe he would forego socks, so his toes were like ice, then he would have an excuse. 

That was it. Halloween was sorted. Mycroft would have to spy on the American ambassador on his own.


	2. A Disappointing then Thoughtful Friday, About a Quarter of the Way Through October…

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock was standing at the window,staring down at the foot traffic on the other side of his street. Another person had joined the ranks of homelessness. He would have to keep an eye on him, see if he could be helpful in Sherlock’s little network.

He was soon distracted from the potential new member by John’s text message going off. Pretending not to listen, Sherlock kept his back to the room. Whoever was messaging him was giving him good news. Sherlock heard the slight, excited intake of breath as John read the message. Not Harry then. It was also not Lestrade or Mike asking him to go out for a pint. The response John was tapping out, painfully slow, was too long for a simple reply. 

When Sherlock heard John put his phone down, he slowly turned and made his way over to his chair. John was back to reading his novel again, no emotion on his face for Sherlock to gauge what sort of good news he had received. He was going to have to wheedle it out of the man. “Good news?” he asked, picking his violin up and, so as to seem not too invested in John’s answer, he started fiddling with the tuning pegs.

“Yeah” John replied cheerily, not looking up from his book. “Karren, the woman I met at the bookstore” at this he nudged his current book up a bit and Sherlock decided he didn’t like where this was going. Clearly, anyone called _ Karren _ was bad news. “Has agreed to go to Mike’s Halloween party with me.”

Sherlock turned the peg a bit to hard and fast at this news and only just managed to move his face out of the way to avoid being hit by a snapping G string. 

No. _ Nonononono _. That was not how Hallooween was supposed to go. Nowhere in Sherlock’s plans did a succubus come and take John away. It was him and John, not him and John and an old crone. 

It was this thinking that had Sherlock blurt out the first thing, the thing that had got him making plans for Halloween in the first place, that came to mind. 

“You can’t. I already told Mycroft we are going to his.”

Finally, John looked up from his book with a look that said he was trying to figure out Sherlocks plan. “But I thought we weren’t going to that” he finally said.

Sherlock turned away again to place his violin back in the case, making a mental note to buy strings, and shrugged his shoulders in a bored, apathetic way. “You wanted to. I was bored…”

“You were bored?” John huffed out, barely suppressing a laugh.

Sherlock turned back to John. “Yes. That shouldn’t come as a surprise to you. I am bored frequently. There are holes in the living room to attest to that.” At this, his hand waved towards the smiley face above their couch. John looked in that direction and gave a resigned sort of sigh. 

“True” said John thoughtfully, and then with a more suspicious tone “Is this going to be a new habit of yours then? Socialising with your brother to fight of boredom.”

What an abhorrent thought. “Would you like me to start shooting up the walls again?” The reply was sulky and petulant and Sherlock dropped into his chair and sunk down as low as he could go. Seriously, why had he had to think of Mycroft and his stupid ball, of all things, to distract John from his _ date _. 

“Nope! Mycroft’s party is it. Not that I believe you for one second that you only accepted out of my welfare, but fine, if you’ve said we’d be there. I’ll just text Karren and reschedule the date. Maybe she is free Guy Fawkes night” he added on absentmindedly.

Sherlock sunk lower in his chair, his scowl deepening on his face as he desperately tried to think of what he could blow up on the 5th November that would a) keep John by his side and b) not get him arrested. 

When nothing came to mind he looked at John, back to reading the book that _ Karren _ had picked out for him. “She didn’t do any of it. It was her ex-husband using her drunken blackouts to confuse her. He killed the neighbour.”

With a very controlled inhale, John closed the book and stood up. “Cheers for that” he said, dropping the book on his vacated chair. “I’m going for a walk now” and then he left, leaving Sherlock alone to sort out how he could possibly get out of this mess, without revealing that a) he had lied and b) revealing his true <strike>feelings</strike> motives and still spend Halloween with a happy John. 

By the time John got back with Japanese take away (clearly out of revenge for Sherlock ruining the book, as Sherlock didn’t like Japanese food) he still hadn’t thought of anything. 

Who knew, maybe a case would happen.

  



	3. A Busy Yet Pleasing Saturday, Nearing the End of October…

~~~~~~~~~~

“Tell me again, why this trip out into the middle of nowhere, couldn’t have waited until a decent hour?” John said through a yawn. 

Sherlock looked at the man in the pale morning light. He had roused John from quite a deep sleep, a few scant minutes after five o’clock that morning. He had instructed him to get dressed and meet him downstairs.

As always, John had followed his orders and within seven minutes, the two of them were exiting 221B Baker Street and Sherlock was hailing a taxi whilst John sipped on the coffee that Sherlock had prepared for him.

Half an hour later, the coffee seemed to have brought some colour to Johns cheeks, but it had done nothing to smooth down the bit of hair that was sticking up behind John's ear, as not only was John in need of a haircut, but he had only used his fingers to tame his sleep mussed hair, on the way down the stairs, rather than use a comb as he usually did. 

Sherlock turned back to the window, the little cowlick of hair an adorable distraction that he did not want to deal with at the moment. To take his mind off of how rumpled John looked, Sherlock answered his question.

“Michael Brodeur, an acquaintance of mine, owns a small, but very successful theatre in Sevenoaks, hardly the middle of nowhere “ he began. In the reflection of the window he saw John give a little shrug. “He has allowed us to look through the costumes he has on hand but he will only be available this morning, as he is going abroad, somewhere inconsequential and thus will not be able to show us his collection if we are not there in the next hour or so.”

John yawned again. “And we need to see his collection, why?”

‘ _ Maybe I should have put a triple espresso shot in his cup instead of the double _ ’ Sherlock thought to himself before he answered Johns very obvious question. “We are going to a ball, for foreign dignitaries, hosted by my brother, John. Do you honestly think that...whatever it was you had planned for Stamford’s party was really going to be adequate enough for my brothers ball?”

There was a moment of silence before John said anything. “Right. So we are costume shopping at some posh theatre for costumes to wear to your brothers halloween ball?”

“Essentially, yes.”

"Not for a case? At all?"

"No."

Silence filled the cab again and Sherlock assumed the conversation was over. 

He was wrong. 

“Right, and we didn’t do this yesterday or the day before, because…?”

Sherlock let out a disappointed sigh. The truth was, he had been trying, valiantly but to no avail, to try and wheedle his way out of attending the ball in the first place, but John had mentioned to Greg, who had mentioned to Mycroft, (because the two of them were  _ not-so-secretly-as-they-would-like _ shagging) that they were attending and then of course Mycroft had smugly made it known to Sherlock that John had let slipped that he was coming so now there was really no backing out of it unless something spectacular came up. Like a case rating a 7 or more, or kidnapping or a really convenient case of appendicitis. Sherlock wasn’t holding his breath for any of the above options and felt it was time to concede defeat and prepare for war.

“Because, John, it only occurred to me, late yesterday afternoon, that neither of us had appropriate outfits for the evening and when I messaged my friend, this was the only time I could arrange for a viewing of his collection.”

“Collection? You make it sound like some antique assortment of frocks and shoes from around the world.”

“Michael is a prized costumier. His career spans decades and he has done work for the Russian Ballet, major West End and Broadway productions as well as wardrobe design for some of the biggest movies ever to reach screen.”

“And he now lives out in the middle of nowhere with a small community theatre?” 

Sherlock didn’t miss the note of skepticism in John’s voice. 

“Yes, well, when I am in my 90’s I assume I too would appreciate the quieter country life to the hustle and bustle of London.”

There was silence again and Sherlock thought John was nodding off, when the man spoke again. “And we are hiking up a massive taxi fare instead of catching the train because?”

“Kyle wanted to repay his debt to me” Sherlock offered, nodding his head towards the taxi driver. At the sound of his name, Kyle lifted his hand in an excited-at-being-mentioned sort of greeting and squeaked out a small “ _ Hi _ .”

“Hi” John returned and then settled back against the seat and closed his eyes. It was going to be another hour or so before they reached their destination. Sherlock thought it would be best to let him sleep. That way, he would be in a better mood and more amenable to letting Sherlock choose exactly what it was he would be wearing to the ball. If he wasn’t getting the Halloween he wanted with John, then he was going to make damn sure he could enjoy it as much as possible.

~o~

Michael had been waiting at the door when Sherlock and John arrived.

“You are late” he remarked simply. 

“Traffic” Sherlock answered with an apathetic shrug. Michael shrugged back. 

“Here” he said, handing Sherlock a ring of keys. “Help yourself to whatever you need. Lock up when you have finished. You know the code. Leave the keys with Marie at the florist.”

Sherlock took the keys and gave a short nod. Michael left. 

“Well, that was simple” John said, once the elderly man was in his car and driving away from them.

“Michael is a simple man” Sherlock replied and then opened the theatre doors and lead John in. 

“This is actually quite impressive” John stated, looking around as they wound through the corridors of backstage. Posters of past productions lined the walls, some with high profile names, that even Sherlock recognised, signed across them. 

“Michael will not work with anything but perfection” Sherlock said as they came to another door. Sherlock went through the keys, until he found the right one and within seconds they were descending a rather steep flight of stairs that seemed to go on forever. At the end of the stairs, another long corridor stretched, this one lined with frames and shadow boxes housing small items from Michaels collection of costumes and accessories. 

“Are these all his work?” John asked, surveying the items as he passed.

“Yes” Sherlock replied, trying to remember if it was the fourth or fifth door he needed. 

John muttered something, but Sherlock ignored him in favour of opening up the fifth door. Seeing a room full of props and ladders, he knew he had chosen wrong. He closed the door and went back a few paces. 

“Here we go” Sherlock announced, flinging open the correct door. “The costume department.”

In front of them stood racks and shelves filled with boxes and garment bags. Each had a photo of what was contained inside.

“Wow” John stated, very simply. Sherlock didn’t blame him. He had been slightly overwhelmed the first time he had seen the collection, also. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing we have all afternoon to pick something.”

“And we should get started” Sherlock said, nudging John into the room before following himself. “I told Kyle’s wife I would have him home before dinner time.”

With that, the two of them started looking through the many different costumes at hand, Sherlock being careful as to what John would pick up or show a slight interest in and quickly shutting down anything that Sherlock was not going to personally enjoy seeing him in.

~o~

Sherlock made up his mind. It was the perfect costume for himself. Mycroft hated any form of mythical creatures, (ever since he realised there was no faun in the back of his wardrobe), claiming them to be ridiculous, immature and ghastly to look at. A tree elf should piss him off perfectly.

The costume consisted of dark green and brown leathers, leaf wrapped boots and a handy little dagger that would be perfect for poking Mycroft and the vapid, shallow women intent on getting their hands on John, should they get too near.

Sherlock was just coming out of the small changing cubicle, gently folding the garment bag over his arm as he did so when John, who was much closer than he thought, called out from behind a rack of clothing.

“Why does your brother always insist on inviting you to his shindigs, if he knows you hate them so much?” He then came into view, holding up a Robin Hood costume. 

While Sherlock thought John would look very fetching in such an outfit, he could not allow John to wear it. It was too similar to his own and if they looked like they were wearing matching outfits, Sherlock would never hear the end of it from Mycroft. He already made the odd comment about his ‘ _ little obsession with the good doctor _ ’ and that was bad enough.

“No, it won’t fit around the shoulders and will be too long in the legs” Sherlock stated, flipping his hand in an indication that John should put it back. He did. “And he insists on dragging me to his  _ shindigs _ , as you so commonly put it, because I can deduce who is up to what and with whom.”

“So can he” came John’s voice from over the rustle of costume bags.

A small smile spread over Sherlock’s face. He always liked to announce the following fact. “But I am better” he said smugly, and then as an add on, “That and he will be too busy stuffing his face with pastries and hors d’oeuvres.”

Just as John’s voice called out, “Hey, I think I’ve found one” Sherlock’s eyes fell on a garment bag. It was perfect and if it didn’t fit John, he would bloody well alter it himself.

“Nope” Sherlock called out, reaching forward and grabbing the bag. “I have one here. Go try it on.”

John came out from the rack he was behind, a ticked off expression on his face. “And you don’t think I’d like a say in the costume?”

“No” said Sherlock, grabbing John’s arm and yanking him forward. “Go try it on, I’ll find shoes.” And shoving the bag in John’s hand, he pushed him towards the dressing room, not giving the man any more time to argue. 

Come hell or high water John was going to wear that costume and no argument John had was going to make Sherlock change his mind.    
  



	4. A Perfectly Satisfactory Halloween Thursday, to End October...

~~~~~~~~~~

“A cowboy, Sherlock? Really?” Mycroft’s voice was more smug than normal and it was all Sherlock could do not to pull out the small wooden dagger sheathed by his waist and poke his brother with it. Hard. Both of them were watching John, on the other side of the room, laugh at something someone dressed as an expensively attired scarecrow had said. “I thought you had left that particular fetish behind in your teen years.”

“I had no say whatsoever in John's outfit. It just happened to be what was left since we did leave it to the last minute to purchase the costumes” Sherlock lied. It came out flawlessly but both of them knew it was far from the truth. This was evident by Mycroft’s smirk getting wider.

“That would explain why you are dressed as Peter Pan, then.”

Sherlock let out an indignant scoff. “Tree Elf” he corrected and then marched away, ignoring the amused glare his brother threw his way, and made his way over to John, prepared to stab the curvy, tightly latex covered devil that was making her way towards the man. 

In a way, Sherlock couldn’t blame people for being attracted to John. He cut a fine figure in the long brown coat, the leather chaps and boots (spurs and all). The bandana around his neck give him a roguish look and and the hat finished the picture off nicely. When John had come out of his room, earlier that night, Sherlock had been thankful that he was already sitting down. The entire look was better than what even his imagination had come up with. It was perfect and Sherlock had made sure to snap several photos whilst John wasn’t looking. 

“I see your brother finally caught up with you” John said as a Sherlock sidled up next to him, his glare making the scarecrow scuttle away. The devil, too, had also stopped her advance and made a beeline for the bar instead. “Can’t say I’m surprised at his costume. He does like to order people about.”

Sherlock let out an indignant huff. “As if he would ever be a soldier. Too lazy.”

“Field Marshal.”

“What?”

“He is a Field Marshal, top of the pecking order. You don’t get much higher than him.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That sounded like Text Book Mycroft. “Of course he would dress as a Field Marshal. In reality, if he had ever joined the army, he wouldn’t have made it past the first week of training, let alone to a point where he would have got promoted to the top.”

John huffed out a short laugh and then took a drink before saying “And I suppose you would have made an exemplary soldier.”

“God no. That’s why I have you.”

Sherlock tried to understand the look John was giving him. It was definitely fond, but Sherlock couldn’t figure out why. He decided he would ask John, why he found that sentiment so appealing when they were approached by a person dressed in royal blue and silver. 

Sherlock was about to make the person leave by being horrible when he got a good look at him. The laughter that bubbled out of him was loud and genuine and almost brought a tear to his eye.

“It’s nice to see you too, Peter Pan” Lestrade said unenthusiastically and then turned to John. “What’s tickled his funny bone?”

John shrugged. 

Eventually, Sherlocks laughter died down and his eyes made a quick circuit of the room, landing on the back of his brothers head and a small burst of giggles erupted again. '_And he had the gaul to bring up my childhood fantasies'_ Sherlock thought to himself.

Trying for lighthearted (but missing due to the snort of pure amusement) Sherlock asked “Let me guess, Athos?” 

“Apparently, yeah but I don’t know what the difference is.”

Sherlock’s grin was practically maniacal. He could feel it stretching his lips. Not that he cared. He was having way too much fun at this point. Mycroft’s fantasies of the three musketeers, Athos especially, was seriously showing itself. (He had always wanted Athos to take him under his wing and … other things.).  And of course he got Lestrade, his bit on the side, to dress up. God, ever since the divorce, he and Mycroft had been flirting shamelessly. It was embarrassing to watch. Why couldn’t they just keep it to the bedroom?

“The difference” Sherlock informed Lestrede gleefully “Is that Mycroft didn’t want Aramis or Porthos to take him to bed and make him lose his very virtue.”

John gave a warning cough, but Sherlock ignored it. It wasn’t like none of them knew about the sordid little secret. And this would get Mycroft back, surely, for outing him to John as a virgin. 

“Sorry, what?” Lestrade seemed genuinely confused, and maybe a bit uncomfortable. Again, Sherlock felt some small amount of inappropriate glee. This would teach him to do unwarranted drug bust, allowing his team to rifle through Sherlock’s stuff. 

He really was getting a lot of pent-up anger and frustration off his chest. It was quite liberating. Which is why he kept talking, despite John trying to edge his way between Sherlock and Lestrade.

“Oh please, like he has never gotten you to explore  _ that _ particular side of your relationship yet. Tell, me does he still like to act the young virgin D’Artagnan? And we both know it is definitely an act.”

At that point, John seemed to have developed a rather violent cough and Lestrade’s eyebrows were doing a valiant job of trying to creep under his ridiculous hat. “Relationship?...What?”

John applied a swift kick to his ankle, silently telling him to shut up but it was a few mouthy sentences too late, for it was that moment that Sherlock realised something. 

Lestrade’s confusion was genuine. Mycroft and he weren’t actually in a relationship, of any kind, despite what he had thought. _Shit._

It was also at that point that he could feel familiar eyes boring into the back of his head. Aiming for casual, Sherlock looked up and over his shoulder and noted that his brother was staring furiously at him. Clearly he had deduced that Sherlock had spilled not only his little fetish, but also the fact that he had a thing for Lestrade. It was time to go before the tables were very swiftly turned and he outed Sherlock to John. 

“Right, so, me and John were just leaving. Tell Mycroft that if he wants blackmail material then not to bother with the ambassador. He is pathetically clean. Go after the wife, she is sleeping with the foreign secretary. Have a good night, bye.”

“We only just got here an hour ago” John groused as Sherlock tugged on his arm.

“And that has been fifty-nine minutes too long. Good evening Lestrade. Keep drinking the champagne.”

Sherlock gave another urgent tug, eyeing his brother starting across the room towards them and John finally got the hint. With a hasty goodbye to Lestrade, he followed Sherlock out of the building and into the cool night, where Sherlock hailed a taxi.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John said as the cab pulled away from the kerb, although, he didn’t sound as angry as he did amused. “You just outed your brother to Greg.”

“I thought they had acted on it...hang on, how do you know Mycroft has a thing for Lestrade?”

John rolled his eyes. “It’s blatantly obvious to anyone who has seen the two of them together. At least everyone, except the two of them.”

“Well, clearly I thought the two of them smarter than they actually are. I thought they were already sleeping together.”

John started giggling. 

“What?”

“Nothing, this is all so stupid. If they just acted on…”

He sort of faded off and gave a small, tight smile, before looking out the window. Sherlock didn’t know why he stopped. He didn’t like the silence. It wasn’t too comfortable. He needed to break it.

“So,  _ The Curse of the Mummy’s Tomb _ or  _ The Curse of Frankenstein _ tonight?”

It worked, John smiled. “The night is young. Why not both?” 

Sherlock liked that idea.

~o~

So far, Sherlocks Halloween was shaping up fairly well. He had received several text messages from his brother, all of which he ignored, on the way home but since then, his phone had been blissfully quiet. 

Once they were home, both John and himself had changed into their pyjamas and as predicted, John came downstairs with his blanket. 

Sixteen minutes into the first movie, Sherlock had smuggled his feet under Johns thighs and the only indication that John had noticed was a half hearted glare, tinted with a small smile, thrown his way until they both continued to watch a bandage wrapped Dickie Owen terrorise Jeanne Roland and Ronald Howard in 1960’s London. 

The evening was going well. Until, it wasn’t.

Twenty-eight minutes into the second movie, John turned to Sherlock and said “ I can’t do this anymore.”

Sherlock looked at the TV screen. Granted, it wasn’t the better of the two movies, but John had watched worse. 

“I thought you liked these B grade horror’s” Sherlock said. “Adds charm or something…” Sherlock left the sentence hanging as he looked to John. John, who was staring at him with the most despondent look Sherlock had ever seen on his face. 

“Not the movie” John said quietly.

Sherlock was confused.

“Us” John clarified.

Sherlock was worried.

It seemed to take forever for John to gather his words. In that time Sherlock's heart had stopped beating and his world, his perfectly crafted yet fragile world, had started to crack.

This was the moment that John left him. 

This was the moment that John said he should have gone to Mike’s party with  _ her _ and that he can’t do this with Sherlock anymore.

This was the moment that Sherlock lost all reason to live.

It was then that John continued to speak. “ I am such a hypocrite. I accused your brother and Greg of not acting on their feelings, earlier.”

Sherlock was still confused. What did his brother or Lestrade have to do with anything? But John wasn’t even looking at him, instead looking down at his hands, clasped in his lap, to notice the discomfiture clouding Sherlock’s face.

“I sit here, day and night and I do nothing. I run with you through the streets of London, I argue with you and laugh with you and I make your bloody tea. I wake up in the morning or I come home from work or from the shop knowing I am coming home to you. But every damn night, I climb those stairs and I go to bed. Alone. And I tell myself, tomorrow. I will change that tomorrow.”

Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat. John couldn’t handle it any more. He never brought his dates home and Sherlock knew it was because of him. And Sherlock should have known this was coming. John was a social man. Well, more social than Sherlock. He was never going to be happy spending the rest of his life alone every night with his odd flatmate his main company. 

But Sherlock had hoped. 

John continued, completely oblivious to Sherlocks distress. 

“But I don’t change it. Because I am scared. I am scared that I am going to lose the one great thing I have in my life.”

At this, John looked up at Sherlock, and for a few brief moments, their eyes locked, neither blinking or looking away.

“Not tonight” John practically whispered and then, in an unexpected turn of events, John leaned forward and slotted his lips over Sherlocks. 

Shocked, Sherlock’s brain sort of fizzed to a halt and then hummed. Completely useless. 

The only thing that was computing was that John had placed his lips on Sherlocks. Voluntarily. 

Sherlock was vaguely aware of John sitting back. 

“Sorry” he heard him mumble. “I just had to let you know.” 

Sherlock was then more than vaguely aware that John was starting to stand up and before he could think about what he was doing, he was launching himself at John, swinging one of his long legs over John’s thighs, straddling the man and kissing him back as if his life depended on it. Which Sherlock was pretty sure it did. 

“Sehr... _ hgmf. _ ..lo…. _ hrr _ ...ck” John managed to splutter out between wet, sloppy, frantic, uncoordinated presses of lips to lips. 

“Yes” Sherlock answered, (He wasn’t sure what he was answering, but whatever John wanted, Sherlock would give it), and then he went back to kissing John. Finally, John started reciprocating. 

A heady whine vibrated in the back of Sherlocks throat as John’s hands came up to cup Sherlock’s backside, pulling him in closer to John. 

“So that’s…”  _ kiss _ “...a yes…”  _ kiss _ “...from you too…”  _ kiss _ “...then?” John panted out between kissing Sherlock back. 

Sherlock nodded frantically. It was awkward as he tried to keep his lips attached to John’s, but he was fairly certain he got the message across. 

For what seemed to stretch on for a blissful eternity, the two of them sat there, snogging the hell out of each other, nipping and panting, moaning and groping as they went. Somewhere along the line, tops had been removed and the two of them started rutting up against each other. Sherlock only stopped when he felt himself on the edge and he suddenly realised that he didn’t want his first time with John (or at all) to end like it had when he was in boarding school. In his pants, dreaming about things he could be doing with the person in the same room as him. It had been embarrassing then, when he had been in his teens and he wasn’t prepared to go through that same humiliation now that he was in his thirties. 

“Stop” he blurted out, finally pulling away from Johns mouth. Thankfully, John seemed to be of the same mind.

“Bedroom?” he asked frantically.

Sherlock replied by quickly removing himself off of Johns lap and yanking the other man up into a standing position. Stepping over the blanket, which had pooled at their feet, the two of them practically ran to Sherlock’s room where John proceded to push Sherlock onto the bed and take the role of straddling and their frantic making out continued.

“Oh god, please tell me you want this to go further” John practically pleaded as he sat up.

“Obviously” Sherlock snapped back, frowning up at the man and then, assuming that asking Sherlock for permission was also his way of giving permission, Sherlock placed his hands at the waistband of Johns pyjama bottoms and yanked them down. 

The elastic caught on his erection, pulling it down, before John’s penis sprung free and slapped up against his belly. Sherlock then wasted no time in lifting his hips, (jostling John a bit as he did so) and pushing his own pants down, thus freeing his own tumescent cock. 

“This is ridiculous” John giggled, swooping down to kiss Sherlock again and Sherlock, taking advantage of the optimal position, grabbed both of them together and squeezed his fingers around them. 

A groan escaped from Johns mouth into Sherlocks and Sherlock happily swallowed it down as he started moving his hand. After a couple of strokes, John was pulling away. Sherlock cried out, instantly missing John against him and in his hand, but the bereavement didn’t last long as John gasped out, “Too dry” and before Sherlock could question him, there was a wet, warm feeling around the head of his penis. 

Instantly, Sherlock’s hand went to the back of his head and he bucked up, craving more of John’s mouth on him. John’s lips slipped halfway down his shaft before pulling back up again. Once again, he focused his efforts on the crown of Sherlock’s prick before taking as much as he could into his mouth. What he couldn’t take, he covered with his hand and between the dry slide of his palm and the wet suction of his mouth it wasn’t long before Sherlock was desperately trying to get out a warning to John.

He got as far as tightening his fingers in John’s short hair and gasping out “ _ Hnnng...Joh… _ ” before he lost all control and came with John’s lips around his cock. 

Sherlock was still quite foggy from his orgasm that he didn’t register that John had moved until his lips were covering Sherlock’s once more. 

Sherlock could taste himself on John’s lips and for reasons unknown to Sherlock, this made him want to lick deeper into Johns mouth. His renewed enthusiasm propelled John to roll his hips against Sherlock’s hip and Sherlock was reminded that John was still wanting. 

His hand clasped around Johns cock and, using the pre-come that had gathered and dripped down the shaft, Sherlock made quick work of winding John up in the most delightful way. His fingers squeezed on every down stroke, his thumb circled the head on every up stroke and he varied the speed depending on the change in John’s breath. 

A minute or two later and John was shouting, rather loudly, Sherlock’s name, surrounded by several colourful praises, and spilling all over Sherlock’s hand and hip. 

John gracelessly dropped onto the bed next to Sherlock, his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and his arm slung over his abdomen. They both lay there sweaty and panting, pyjamas bottoms tangled around entwined legs, come smeared between them. 

Neither of them cared. 

“John” Sherlock said, somewhat sleepily.

John grunted in response.

“You don’t have to go to bed alone tonight.”

Sherlock felt John’s arm around him tighten. “Thank you” he murmured against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Or any night” Sherlock clarified, just in case John thought he was only offering tonight, which was just absurd. 

John’s arm tightened around him again. Sherlock smiled a small, happy smile.

“Happy Halloween, John.”

“Happy Halloween, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. It had been a very pleasant Halloween after all. 


End file.
